April Fell Quiet

He left with a rifle. He wrote with hope. He waited for April to bring him home.

September 1914,
Arthur Lambert kissed his mother goodbye and promised to write.
From the front, his letters spoke of sunrises, mud, and longing. What they did not say was how cold it gets after nightfall, how quiet it becomes after the guns.

As April approaches and the violets bloom, his words begin to dwindle.
And long after the war ends, a single poem will remain - one that remembers him, even if it never says his name.

Before the war, he read poetry.
Amongst the violets, he became one.